


Aperture

by vetiverbitters



Series: The Saint and the Dragon [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Tauriel/Kili, Model AU, Model!Thranduil, Otp: Barrel of Laughs, Photographer!Bard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:23:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3324044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverbitters/pseuds/vetiverbitters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a multi-million dollar ad campaign photo shoot for the newest unisex designer fragrance is thwarted by the weather, everyone is on edge -- from the directors, make-up artists, and set designers; to the lighting crew, wardrobe, and the models. The only who seems to be keeping calm is their photographer, and for Thranduil, it is both blessing and bane to be so bare and close to the saint of a man behind the lens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aperture

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written any fics in years, and I'm new to the Hobbit fandom. Forgive the rust, yeah? I also don't know much about how photo shoots work, so there's that. I was inspired to write this by reading perfume reviews, looking at Calvin Klein fragrance ads and forest/woodsy photoshoot shots, as well as the substantial amount of time I've spent browsing through the barduil tags on tumblr and this archive. This fandom's writers are the reason I'm here writing, so I guess this is an homage to all of those authors who make the barduil tags such an emotionally fulfilling, idea-rich timesuck.

The weather had actually been accounted for when it came to the blasted photo shoot, given the season -- or they had tried to account for it, anyway. After all, the winter-bare, twisting trees and hard-packed earth covered in the crunchy rust of leaves were elemental in creating the visual backdrop for the alluring, untamed nature of the Mirkwood fragrance. The extent of the inclement weather, however, with unforgiving snow and near-arctic winds that had continued for more days than predicted, had the production team desperately scrambling to bring the shoot indoors to keep the campaign schedule from coming to a grinding halt.

To cancel would piss away millions in bookings, equipment, staffing, and contracts, and thus the “woodland realm” came to reside in an industrial warehouse on the outer edges of the city, with a dozen more set designers and crew, scattering and conglomerating over and over, attempting to turn the concrete pillars and floors into mossy trees and earthen paths, riddled with gnarled roots and nests of branches. For the fourteen hours they had had to bring the Greenwood Nature Preserve to life inside a building, it wasn’t bad at all. Through the camera lens and on the glossy pages of magazines, it could be just as magical as the actual place. The fake trees would never feel as alive as that ageless wood, but the texture of the bark and the crooked, twisted extensions of branches creating dry thickets rated pretty decently on a life-like scale.

The locale was far from ideal in Bard’s mind, but considering the storm outside made the shoot impossible, making adjustments to lighting and colors in post-production would acceptably emulate the muted light of the forest. The first option had been green screens, but Bard had flat-out refused the idea, and had instead suggested the transformation of the set, which looked better and would cost about the same as using the damned screens, anyway. While the photographer discussed angles with the crew and finished setting up the computer station away from the shooting area, two models sat at the makeup chairs, bundled in thick terrycloth robes. Though safe from the elements, the warehouse was far too chilly for them to be lounging about in the thin spandex of the modesty garments, despite the industrial space heaters nearby.

The auburn-haired model sipped her tea as she quietly chatted with the stylist that was placing a circlet of woven branches on her head, then pinned the circlet into place with quick flicks of a wrist. The blond model sat not far from his partner, head tilted back to allow the contour brush to sweep along the curves of sharp cheekbones, as well as the sides of his straight, narrow nose, and his jaw. Another hair stylist waited in the wings, holding a woven contraption of branches that rose to points like antlers, moving behind the man to slot the crown into place without disturbing the silken fall of his platinum hair. He remained silent and pliant enough for the stylist to line his waterline with a light taupe color to enhance the cornflower blue of his eyes. 

“Thranduil, Tauriel – are they ready?” came the harried voice of the director, breaking the fragile peace amongst the background chaos. The redheaded model called out a soft “yes” and rose from her chair on slippered feet, then mournfully put down the mug that had been keeping her hands warm while it came time to take the photos. Her entourage of hair and makeup dismissed her with sympathetic smiles and rather than take her leave, she came to stand by Thranduil’s chair in front of him, admiring the astounding picture her colleague painted – hard angles and raw seduction to her luscious curves and sensuous allure; a forest god and his nymph, ready to charm and haunt those who enter their domain. The eyeliner was totally unnecessary when the guy had eyes like that, but it was going to photograph phenomenally. “Do you think they’ll actually pull all of this off on time?” Tauriel asked, though why she had bothered to ask at all had more to do with getting a deeply annoyed Thranduil to talk to her and eventually distract him, rather than to have to stew in his displeasure for hours on end. It wasn’t the first time they had worked together, and while their chemistry translated well in photos and he could transform his anger into whatever emotion the shot called for, the intensity of his anger made it difficult to concentrate on little else but the glacial contempt radiating off him.

“All I know is that I need to be at the Armani fitting by three, and you have to get to the nearest airport not closed due to weather, so you can make it to the Balmain shoot in Paris two days from now. It’s in their best interest that  _we_  are on schedule,” Thranduil groused just low enough for only Tauriel to hear as he rose from his chair and nodded toward the makeshift forest a half dozen feet away. “I won’t rearrange my work again just because they didn’t pay enough attention to the weather forecast.” Tauriel followed her colleague in companionable silence for some moments, secretly endeared that the blond had considered her own scheduling conflicts in his ire toward the whole mix-up. It had been him who had made calls and pulled strings to get her a contract with the famed fashion house after she had dreamily mentioned how great it would be to model for it one day. The industry could call him petulant and cold all they wanted, but he was capable of being considerate of others, of being charming when he felt comfortable enough to be. That his demeanor could make both and women shake at the knees spoke more to his talent in commanding his surroundings, than petty comments about his perceived personality deficiencies or attitude problems. Their eyes met when Thranduil carefully tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and offered her a softer look, minutely tilting the corners of his mouth into a smile.

“You look nice,” he said to Tauriel, who shrugged and returned a full smile and a gentle laugh that soon turned into surprise when he produced a bottle of Mirkwood from his robe pocket and spritzed the heady fragrance at the hollow of her throat. “Now your smell matches your look.”

“Where did you get that?!”

“I asked.” It was his turn to shrug and laugh, deep and low, a rumbling of his ivory throat. “I asked for it so I could ‘get into character’ and they sent me one.” The long fingers wiggling into air quotes pulled yet another laugh from Tauriel. Her mirth seemed to smooth away the spiny edges of his seriousness, and she let herself bask in that brief ray of warmth and the subtle differences between their scents. On him, the bitterness of the opium notes highlighted notes of musk, leather, sandalwood, and sage; whereas on her, the amber and juniper were more prominent. It was a pleasing, intoxicating contrast that she wished could come across on paper as it did to her nose: he the scent of rain-soaked stone and secrets of the earth, and her sweetly narcotic flowers and thunder.

“And here I was, already planning to pocket the tiny tester I saw lying around by the makeup area until they launched the damned thing.” Her pout dissolved into a grin as she took the bottle from his hand and sprayed her wrists, then rubbed them together to work the scent onto her skin. Thranduil took the bottle back with the beginnings of a smirk itching at his lips, but the carefree gesture soon faded with the grating sound of some assistant or other, asking them to please assume places at their assigned area of the 'forest.' As soon as it came, Thranduil’s light mood vanished, only to leave his perfect, impassive mask back in place. 

Back to the hurried, uncomfortable present.

“Well, at least if we get stuck here, we’ll have a nice view, now, won’t we?” Her voice dropped to an amused, conspiratorial whisper as they came to a stop not far from the dark-haired photographer, who gesticulated with strong, tan hands as he talked to his assistant and one of the light technicians. The blond made a low, purring sound of agreement at her comment, his eyes taking in the sight of Bard Bowman already casting his magic on set with that good-natured smile and the clarity with which he communicated his vision. Though Bowman’s name did not have the same clout as Leibovitz or Testino did when it came to shooting massive international campaigns, his work was well-recognized – in particular his work with nature, which Thranduil favored for its reverence toward the natural world, for Bard’s ability to give it a voice in which it could clearly communicate sensuality, emotion, and power. It also helped the man was patient and even-tempered – and heaven knew they could use someone at the helm who could focus and work efficiently in spite of challenges. Thranduil cared little for what was actually being said, but he liked the shapes Bard's lips took on as he spoke, and the peeks of his Welsh lilt curling about his t's, i's, and r's. The musicality of it, however, was no match for the hostile, desperate pitch of the director's voice demanding to know when everything would be ready.

What an unpleasant little man, speaking like the oversight was everyone else's fault, even Bard's.

“I am still going to berate the piss out of someone if that happens, though.” The blond followed the movement of the photographer’s shoulder blades shifting under his long-sleeved Henley and watched the fabric stretch around the breadth of those shoulders with growing interest until the man turned to greet him and Tauriel, closing the distance between them to shake hands. With a view of that smooth, strong brow and smoldering eyes, he probably wouldn’t complain for long.

“You must be Tauriel,” the photographer jovially extended his hand toward the redhead, which she graciously took and shook it, blushing under the man’s grey-green gaze and offering him a radiant smile in return for the warmth of his welcome. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Bowman, truly.” The honey in her voice thickened as she addressed the photographer, turning sweeter, smokier when the man asked her to call him Bard instead. The itch to laugh tugged at Thranduil’s throat, but he chased it down with thoughts of that dark hair coming loose from the haphazard little bun it was messily contained in. The slowly coiling heat in Thranduil’s middle loosened the tension from his shoulders instead, leaving his head feeling light and bubbling pleasantly. What a sight for sore eyes.

“It makes me feel so old and stuffy. I’m just a thirty-somethin' sod snapping pictures here and there.” Bard chuckled and shrugged, running a hand through his hair as if that nervous little gesture could dismiss his awards and portfolio. Tauriel looked like she wanted to wash over the self-deprecating joke with praise and that flirtatious little look she consistently directed at her tiny boyfriend, but Thranduil quipped in at last, stepping closer to Bard to hold that hand and shake it himself, to luxuriate in the thrill of gripping warmth and grazing those knuckles with his fingertips.

“Modesty, one of the benchmarks of sainthood,” Thranduil’s lips parted to reveal a sliver of teeth that wasn’t quite a smile, but radiated a muted sort of pleasure. If not for the talent with the camera and his charisma, Bard was wasted behind it – the angles of that darkly handsome face and his rugged poise could sell some serious fantasies. “If you can make a miracle out of this mess of a shoot, I will call the pope myself and have you canonized.” The blond held out his hand to the photographer with a slow turn of his wrist, his eyes on Bard's laughing mouth, then on the hand that shook his with an effusive grip and a lingering squeeze before releasing it. 

"Good to see you again, Thranduil," Bard smiled back, a crooked thing cocked at one side of his mouth, but nevertheless open and genuine. "You look good."

Thranduil pointedly ignored the look he could feel Tauriel giving him and instead bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, feeling smug at the way Bard's eyes followed the forward fall of his hair with that intense focus that was so natural to the dark-haired man. The blond's nape prickled as a flash of heat traveled down the length of his spine, but he refused to shudder so publicly over such private thoughts of that gaze.

"Don't just stand there! Get to shooting!" The nasty holler of the director rang a mere foot from Thranduil's right ear, drawing broad shoulders into a slow-motion flinch, complete with a scornful side-glance that drew amused sounds from his companions. With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Bard parted from Thranduil and Tauriel in search of his camera, leaving the models to assume their positions on their designated spots for the first photo sequence.

"If only it weren't unprofessional to slap his wretched head from his miserable shoulders," Thranduil hissed under his breath, nostrils flared as he shed his robe with a swift roll of his shoulders, then handed it off to an anxious, waiting assistant. "Or if weren't considered assault in a room full of witnesses," Tauriel quipped with an arched brow, reluctant to part with the warm robe, but gave it up all the same and huddled close to Thranduil as the assistant retreated at a sprint. The lingering draft of cold air did tighten the muscles of his abdomen with the prelude of shivers, but his simmering annoyance kept him focused on the task at hand; wrapping an arm around Tauriel's shoulders, the blond gently steered her into the branch nest and draped himself around her as instructed.

Her soft huff of pleasure at having some measure of warmth again lessened his ire and tightened his forearm across her mostly bare breasts, keeping her body molded against his own long frame. Limbs positioned and angles carefully accounted for, the tune of shutter clicks and cues took off. Thranduil emptied his mind of all thoughts, save for the words Bard had called out to them before he disappeared behind the lens:  _You are the glowing yellow eyes watching from the trees; you are ageless and beautiful as you are raw and dark. Give me promises of ectasy and danger with your looks, and godlike with your bodies, yeah?_ As he angled his body with, around, and beside Tauriel's, he breathed deeply and let the tantalizing scent flood his body, giving it reins over his mind and the precise movements of his features and limbs. 

How would that brave saint feel with glowing yellow eyes following his descent into the primeval forest? How would his sweat taste when fear and arousal sent his heart into a frenzy? Could he, the king of the woods, drink the crunch of his uncertain footsteps upon the ground? What depths could he glimpse in dilated pupils devouring his nakedness?

"Saint George in a room full of dragons," Thranduil purred to himself during a brief pause in shooting, tuning out the director's abhorrent whining and prodding of the blessedly composed photographer. Bard's voice remained at an even volume despite the edge of tension in it. 

"You had better not be thinking of a swordfight with your crotch so close to me, dragon," Tauriel whispered between gritted teeth, attempting to contain her mirth at bay. "If you ruin my headspace, I will make sure your body is never found, woman." The blond's face remained unchanged, though the coils in his middle were tightening again.

"Did you know he's in the market again? Lindir told me Jon and Bard split like four months ago." There was no need to look at Tauriel to know her whole face radiated mischief and insufferable smugness. He curled his toes into the leaves and soil under his feet, willing himself not to mull over that piece of information for the time being. 

"Just know your life is forfeit."

Damn her. It would almost serve her right if he let his body react to the ideas lurking at the back of his mind. 

"Thranduil, look at me, luv. Stay where you are," Bard gestured with a nod of his head, his hands cradling the camera with a sure, reverent grip. "Tauriel, take fifteen and come back for your solo shots. You've been splendid, darlin' -- both of you." The redhead took her leave quickly, glad to go hunt down her robe and probably text Kili ad nauseam. Tauriel's departure left Thranduil without his own source of warmth, as well as on full display in nothing but buff-colored spandex to cover him. It didn't matter who was watching -- it wouldn't be the first or last time strangers got a view of his bare body -- but he hoped Bard was paying attention beyond his task. The man couldn't be all saint, could he? 

The next photo sequence involved an intricately carved wooden throne, of sharp branches twisting upwards like giant antlers and exquisite latticework on the backrest. It was cold to sit on the throne, but Thranduil draped himself over it just the same, keeping a straight, regal posture of his head and shoulders, but allowing his long legs to cross in a more relaxed manner to preserve the idea of nudity, of belonging on that throne like a king would.

"That's perfect -- hold that, please," Bard approached the throne and waltzed from side to side in front of Thranduil, camera brandished and snapping at different angles: the sharpness of cheekbones, the strength of his brow, the hunger and superiority in his eyes, the provocative slopes of his crossed legs. 

Under that gaze studying him between clicks of the shutter, Thranduil found it increasingly difficult to keep his pose for the camera. All too aware of those green eyes analyzing the secrets of his body to bring them out in his work, the model's lower back arched against the his own wishes; the proximity urged him to writhe, and while he could maintain his unphased facial expression, the tension of his muscles was much harder to hide.

"Don't clench your fists, luv. And uncurl your toes for me, yeah? Almost done here, promise!"

Tauriel's stifled a laugh nearby, head tilted down but not really looking at her phone, and definitely not at Thranduil. The urge to roll his eyes at her was almost overwhelming, but instead he pushed his tongue against the roof of his mouth as hard as he could and exhaled slowly. 

"Give me predator, Thranduil."

"Tilt your head to the right -- yeah, there, show me your jaw and your neck like that."

"Now look at me..."

Thranduil resolutely kept his legs crossed despite the instinctual tug to let them fall open at that last cue. 

"Hey," Bard lowered his camera and gave Thranduil a small smile, "I think I've enough shots, so why don't you take a little while to relax and if I need more, we'll shoot after Tauriel. That alright with you?" The assistant holding Thranduil's robe draped over her arm approached at Bard's motion of his hand. Automatically, Thranduil reached for the garment and acknowledged Bard's words with a small nod of his head. "That sounds fair. Thank you." Bard watched as Thranduil slid into the robe, eyes lingering on toned arms and strong, smooth shoulders. Feeling those eyes upon his body only stirred the flutter in the blond's middle to fire, evaporating the breath in his lungs and leaving him to simmer in an exquisite warmth. 

"No, thank  _you_ ," Bard laughed and absently ran a thumb over the buttons around the display screen of his camera, shifting his gaze away momentarily, but still it returned to the burning blue of Thranduil's eyes. "I got some truly phenomenal shots. I think the end result is going to make a lot of people happy, despite the weather cock-up." 

"I would like to see them, if there's any time later," Thranduil murmured around a demure smile, but turned on his heel as soon as he spotted the director and left the photographer to call out an agreement behind him. From somewhere on Thranduil's left, Tauriel approached with his agent following a few steps behind. His lips tightened with a mixture of light annoyance and embarrassment in response to the teasing laughter he could practically feel vibrating from her.

"Yeah, uncurl those toes, Thranduil," she whispered as she passed him, pulling a growl from his throat that triggered a string of furtive giggles in her wake. His agent, Haldir, remained with the blond, watching the amused redhead retreat with curiosity. Wordlessly, Thranduil stole his phone from Haldir's hand and turned it back on, trying to hide the heat on his cheeks and throat by looking down at the mobile. For having identified with the dragon, Bard's words were still burning a hole in him. The phone display lit up brightly after booting up.

It was 1:45 already, according to his mobile, and he had two missed calls from Legolas. Thranduil tensed and cursed under his breath, wondering why his brother had called, but knowing better than to try calling him back while on set.

"What was that all about?" Haldir asked and produced his own mobile from his coat, showing the other blond a text message thread with Legolas. His brother had called to tell him the details about his return flight, but not being able to contact Thranduil, he had passed the information on to the other man. Once Thranduil audibly exhaled his relief, the shorter blond prodded again. "She was practically hooting every time Bowman told you to correct your posture. Said something about a dragon slayer..."

"I hate her." Thranduil proclaimed without venom, and allowed himself the vindictive pleasure of rolling his eyes. It was all payback for his numerous potshots at Kili, probably. "I made the mistake of acknowledging Bard's good looks," Thranduil tailored his words carefully, infusing his tone with enough nonchalance to keep the heat from crawling up his neck and face. Still not looking at Haldir, the model took off in the direction of the catering tables at a measured saunter. Haldir followed mere steps from him, taking in the heavy bustle around the warehouse with something akin to humor and a bit of disdain.

"Remember the other shoot with Bowman, and you were practically plastered to his back while he showed you his photographs? I'd wager a bet she would like that story." 

Last shoot, he had been so close to Bard, he could have brushed his lips against the nape of the photographer's neck, but Bard had been spoken for that time. He wasn't, now -- at least according to sources of gossip...

Thranduil put down the salad tongs abruptly. The sight of food nauseated him now, but he couldn't bring himself to look a laughing Haldir in the face. Not at least without laughing himself, anyway. He'd been so purposely terrible about invading Bard's space, and yet the other man had remained gracious and calm.

"You Frenchmen are positively abhorrent."

"It won't kill you to ask him out. Being that obvious, however, might."

"Who says I won't?" Thranduil rebutted with his back to Haldir, still, but after years of knowing each other, Haldir knew where the sounds of mischief liked to hide in Thranduil's deep, haughty tone.

"Be useful and go pester these bastards about me leaving, yes? The fitting's at three." 

"Yes, my Lord." 

"Don't call me that. Your ancestors decapitated their nobility."

It was hard not to join Haldir in laughter when his glee rumbled in the man's chest so contagiously. 

"I only consider it when you're a prat. Now, cool down, will you? You're making me sweat from watching you swoon."

The agent placed a bottle of water on the table next to Thranduil and took his leave of him. That man had one hell of a knack for anticipating his needs before Thranduil himself could even voice them, and for being a preening little sod while he was at it. Food forgotten, the bottle cap came off and Thranduil shuffled away toward the makeup chair he'd been inhabiting earlier, sipping away at the bottle as he scrolled through emails and missed phone calls. Somewhere toward the back of the warehouse, the director hollered for something, but Thranduil tuned him out. Taking advantage of his newfound solitude, the blond fired off a quick text to Legolas, promising to call back as soon as the shoot and the fitting were finished. Minutes later, an emoji heart came as a reply and Thranduil's chest ached with the longing to hold Legolas close, to braid his hair while his baby brother told him all about the African jungles and the forests of the east. Seven months were a long time to only hear Legolas' voice in phone calls.

Thranduil nursed the water bottle like the drink he couldn't yet have and watched Tauriel switch between poses, graceful and fierce, and just enough softness to deceive. Bard seemed to dance as he moved in for close-ups, as if unwilling to miss a single opportunity to reveal her secrets. It was dizzying to watch, almost. Thranduil's mobile buzzed in his hand, jarring him out of the fog in his thoughts. Haldir, with perfect timing, as always.

 **[14:07] The Powers that Whine decree you and T can leave pending final review with Dragon Slayer.**  

**[14:08] They had better be, I'm taking off this crown right now...**

Thranduil locked eyes with his agent from across the warehouse and tugged at the back of the wooden crown with thumb and forefinger, pulling the contraption off his head in one slow move to keep his hair from tangling on the sharp points. Haldir was already gathered with Bard, the director, two Mirkwood reps, and Tauriel, and from the pointing and the continuous nodding, the final review seemed to be going well. The blond left his very capable agent to hash out the remaining details of the campaign while he went on the hunt for his belongings and some makeup remover, hoping to be dressed and ready to go before anyone could find a reason to keep him captive in this wretched set. What a pity he wouldn't be crowding Bard's space again, for the time being. Maybe Haldir would get him the photographer's contact info if he asked. It was 2:14 when Thranduil found himself at the makeup table, already bundled up in a thick charcoal scarf, tailored indigo-wash jeans tucked into tan oxford boots, and a pea coat of thick carmine wool. With quick, practiced swipes of the makeup removing towelette, he wiped away at the layers of foundation, bronzer, liner, and translucent powder until his face was blissfully bare of junk. As the blond rummaged through a box of accessories for a brush, his hand uncovered a stack of white card stock strips the length and breadth of his finger. He bit his lower lip to keep himself from purring with self-satisfaction, the embers of arousal sparking up again at the pit of his stomach at the prospect of his bold move. Taking one of the strips and laying it on the table, Thranduil dug into his tote for his bottle of Mirkwood and his silver fountain pen. He spritzed the paper once and shook it in one hand while the other ran through the long fall of pale platinum to lightly tease it into an appealing mess. The strong, tantalizing scent blossoming in the air drew a soft groan from him.

Why ask Haldir to do the digging at all? Leaving the work to someone else was hardly the mark of a good predator, wasn't it?

Once the card stock was dry, Thranduil inscribed the name of his hotel, the time, and his mobile number upon the paper.  _The Doriath, 8 P.M., 020-7946-0931_. The buzzing of his mobile phone once more broke his concentration. Tauriel must have been given the green light to go as well if she was messaging him already.

**[14:21] your saint looks sad that you have to go ; )**

**[14:21] haldir says to stop primping and get a move on**

**[14:23] He won't be sad for long.**

Nearby, Tauriel's soft squeal was audible, but Thranduil ignored the source of origin and crossed the warehouse space to join Haldir and Bard, thankfully talking by themselves without the director's loathsome presence. A pleasant shiver tugged at Thranduil’s spine to feel Bard's eyes scanning him from head to toe once more as he strode towards them. The model came to stand next to Bard close enough to brush shoulders. Both blonds exchanged a brief glance, then Haldir graciously bid the photographer farewell, shaking Bard’s hand and thanking him for his time and patience, as well as commending him for the stunning shots he had captured. "I'm only as good as the subjects, so you ought to thank them," Bard modestly insisted, settling a hand on the middle of Thranduil's back and patting him fondly to diffuse the praise onto the model. Thranduil was all too aware of that hand on his back but he recovered quickly, the rich, dark tone of his laugh vibrating deeply to mask the moment of breathlessness that had left him curling his fists in the pockets of his coat. 

A saint among hungry, hungry sinners.

Haldir's eyes glinted with an air of glee, but his face, thankfully, remained professionally blank. "The car's outside, I'll wait for you there, yes?” Nodding absently, Thranduil angled his body to face Bard fully once Haldir took his leave of them, pulling his hands from his pockets and with them, the scented card strip and his phone.

"I don't know who the patron of lost causes is, but you've officially got the job now," the blond declared grinning, holding up the paper bit between his index and middle fingers. Eyebrow raised, the photographer chuckled and plucked the paper from Thranduil's grip, turning it between his fingers to read the message. "And this?" The change in Bard's eyes was hard to pinpoint, but Thranduil pushed on, already incensed by the intoxicating rasp of the other man's voice and his proximity.

"Since I must be somewhere else right now, I was hoping you'd be free to meet later and show me today's shots. I would really like to see them." Thranduil's voice trailed off, basking in the curiosity in Bard's gaze, sizing up his meaning and glancing down at his lips as if distracted. "And while the Pope gets back to me about your sainthood, I'll buy you a drink or two since the hotel bar is open despite the weather. How does that sound?"

"It sounds like I'm not saintly enough to decline a drink, I guess," Bard shrugged loosely and chuckled lowly, then pocketed the paper strip into one of the front pockets of his jeans. Thranduil followed the journey of that hand, and willed himself not to lick his lips, though he let his eyes linger on the subtle outline on the front of Bard's jeans. 

"And for that, the heathen in me is grateful."

Someone called for Bard just as his phone buzzed in his hand. 2:36 P.M., four text messages: Three from Tauriel, the latest from Haldir. 

"See you later, then?" Bard offered apologetically, picking his camera back up, but not quite turning away yet. The green of Bard's eyes was darker now -- magnetic, even. "Yes, you will," the blond bowed his head and forced himself to walk away, thinking of all the time he would have later on in the night to feast upon those eyes and the delicious timbre of that voice.

Thranduil caught sight of Tauriel as he exited the warehouse, but did not approach her, unless he wanted to be even later to the damned fitting. Sooner or later, she was going to call and demand to know what he'd said to the drago-- to Bard.

A frigid blast of wind greeted him outside, as soon as his shoes crunched and trod upon the snow. It howled around him and snuck under the thick layers of his clothes, raising pimples on his skin that echoed the electricity crackling and swirling inside his chest. From the curb, Haldir held open the door of the SUV and hurried him along with a gesture of his gloved hand. 

2:41.

 


End file.
